


The Sisterhood of the Travelling Nail File

by Kurekai



Category: Fishbones - Jisuk Cho
Genre: Canon Compliant, College, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4360805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kurekai/pseuds/Kurekai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about some hairclips, three alleged coffee dates, and the 90-degree angle where the bed meets the wall.</p><p>Sequel to Night Of Encounters</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sisterhood of the Travelling Nail File

**Author's Note:**

> Jisuk jokingly asked for a sequel to Encounters and because I have no idea what a joke is this fic now exists I hope you all like it. Happy belated birthday Jisuk! Thanks for proof reading and I’m really sorry it's literally over a month late!

 

“Still not allowed to do that.” 

A street lamp splutters, creamy light spilling across the pavement, and the spitting rain flickers and shines as the droplets fall in and out of the murky shadows cast by the surround buildings. Caught red handed, Demos snaps his head around, looking up at Ferris from where he has neatly folded and slotted himself between the Leet Oliver Memorial Halls clammy limestone wall and the rickety bike rack that boxes in the stairs. The jut of the stone arch above almost but just not quite protects him from the pathetic onslaught of raindrops steadily falling from the sky.

He sits in a knobbly crouch, all joints bent, a thin layer of shiny damp coating his head and coat, and Ferris has to grip his bag, knuckles turning white, as he watches the lit cigarette balanced between Demos’ lips fall limp as his mouth curves into a small but wholly mirthful smirk. 

“You’re the only one who tell’th me off, you know.” Demos exhales around the cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke directly into Ferris’ face. At least it would be into his face, if it weren’t for the fact that Ferris is standing at the top of the stairs and completely out of reach.

Instead the cloud dissipates, translucent white ribbons bellowing upwards. In the golden light the rain spits, glitter through the smoke, before it completely vanishes. 

Eyes still locked on Demos’ illusive cigarette-lip T-junction, Ferris adjusts the weight of his bag and takes a single step down. The tobacco stench smacks him in the face, rubbing itself all over his windbreaker. He immediately regrets the decision. 

“You didn’t have to-”

The movement of Demos’ hands stops Ferris suddenly, his eyes flitting down to Demos’ wrists set atop his spindly folded knees, and Ferris watches as his friend drags a pale pink nail file in a single, delicately fell swoop across the sharp edge of his left thumb.

The emery board is braced between Demos’ fingers, his knuckles scabbing but nearly all nails immaculate, and from his periphery Ferris sees Demos’ smirk double in mirth until it gathers creases around his eyes.

 

> _A very pressing inquiry: Why does this asshole have a nail file?_

Demos drags the file back down his thumb a second time, board flicking with a sharp smack as it reaches the end of his nail, and Ferris can tell Demos wants him to fucking ask about it. His friend holds the file like it costs a fortune; daintily arcing it across the tips of his fingers like it’s _totally_ not a big deal, and Ferris can’t seem to take his eyes off it. 

Transfixed, Ferris doesn’t notice himself stepping down the remaining stairs, not until a particularly fat raindrop decides to collide with his shoulder after falling from under the arch, pooled by gravity’s unending cruelty, and suddenly his focus is back on the cigarette-smirk T-junction located directly in the centre of Demos’ all too smug face. 

> _A thing you shouldn’t do: Ask about it_

Ferris sucks in a breath. “You didn’t have to wait for me.” He finishes.

Demos smirk falters, crossing the boundary between smug into genuinely happy for half a second too long before swapping back, and he pulls the cigarette from his lips with the same hand that holds the emery board. 

He does some funky finger gymnastics to support both objects. Ferris figures anyone else would fuck that up, knows for sure that he would embarrassingly drop everything if asked to do the same, but observes silently as Demos makes it look all too easy, blowing a steady stream of smoke up and out of the arch’s inky shadow and towards the glowing street light.

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t here long.” Demos says, like the personal inconvenience of him having to sit cold and alone on the steps outside the Leet Oliver Memorial Hall was what Ferris was consumed with worry over throughout his entire exam.

 _Of course_ , Ferris thinks, rolling back his head.

“That’s not what I meant,” Ferris says, eyes meeting directly with the dripping pool of rainwater collecting under the stone arch right above his head, and silently willing the whole thing to just drop on him. “I told you before that you didn’t have to come. 

Demos stands suddenly, free hand pushing him from the damp stair and forcing Ferris to snap his head down to notice. He side steps out of the way as his friend swings his body over the bike rack, Demos smiling like he knows exactly how cool that move just made him look, but Ferris knows it’s 70% bullshit because there is no way his ass can’t not be soaked from doing something as stupid as sliding it over an obviously soaking wet metal frame.

Demos’ perseveres none the less, not falling even slightly as he shoves the cigarette back into his mouth.

“I wanted to,” he says, looking away as his hand comes up to flick water from his bangs, and Ferris can feel the blood in his heart clot from how disgusting he finds the whole display.

Demos’ fingers run through his hair, wringing out soaked strands and causing thin streams of water to trickle between the juts of his skinned knuckles.

Ferris watches them as they trial down the pale expanse of his wrist, watches the lamplight ripple a shiny oil slick in his drenched mop of black hair, watches the illusive cigarette-lip T-junction obscure a roll of paper just beyond soft parted lips, and he finds it suddenly much harder to breath.

No matter how badly he wants it to, the dripping pool of rainwater collecting under the stone arch right above Ferris’ head doesn’t just drop on him.

“How’d it go, anyway?”

“Huh?” Ferris snaps his eyes up to meet Demos’, not wanting to think too hard about where they were before, and is caught off guard by the question.

“Exam,” His friend elaborates, shaking out his bangs. “It was one of your two billion math courses, right?”

Ferris’ uses the power of sheer will to supress the blooming redness in the tips of his ears, and the patter of rain on pavement all but ceases in the time it takes for him to squash as much of this gross feeling into the back of his skull as humanly possible before considering a normal person answer.

He settles with, “It was Modern Combinatorics.”

Demos’ grin almost splits his faces apart. “Gesundheit.”

He rolls the nail file around his fingers, board sliding over the peeks of his knuckles as he spins it in a loop like its some kind of cheap butterfly knife trick that Ferris would be impressed by. Ferris watches it curve over his friends’ hand, the pink board arcing seamlessly across petite, gaunt white fingers before coming to a perfect stop, snatched in his palm.

He isn’t impressed.

> _A thing you definitely shouldn’t do: Ask about it_

His friend knocks a light punch to Ferris’ shoulder, laughing at his own joke as he takes off down the street in a stroll so casual it violates multiple nightclub dress codes. Ferris tugs the strap of his bag down hard on his shoulder as he turns to follow, not that he needs to rush. He’s at Demos’ heels in seconds. 

“Very funny,” he says, shoes clapping against the wet pavement. “You don’t even know what combinatorics is.”

“Oh, its very useful math, I’m sure.” Ferris can’t see Demos’ pout, but he hears it drip thickly into every one of his words. “It sounds riveting.” He whips his head around to flash Ferris a quick grin. “Really, I’m seething with jealousy.”

There’s a glow in his eyes, the evening street lamps perhaps, or maybe just the angle of his head tilted slightly back, that causes Ferris’ intestines to drop off the edge of some bottomless chasm located in his local mid-torso area.

His hair’s still wet, his smile so smug, and school yard taunting should not make a person this gay, Ferris figures, at least not this early in the evening. Demos enjoying his inflated sense of comedy prowess far too much to be within healthy bounds certainly isn’t helping.

Ferris hears it suddenly, the harsh _smack-smack_ and dull scrape of emery board on skin and his attention is immediately back on Demos’ hands. Demos continues his offensively slow amble down the street, the nail file _smack_ accenting between footsteps.

> _A thing you absolutely, totally, should not do: Ask about it_

“Th’eriously, how’d i’d go?” Demos mouths around the cigarette again, smoke trailing from his nose and drawing a dissipating line through the air from the tip of the cigarette directly into Ferris’ face.

“It was fine,” Ferris says, poignantly crossing to Demos’ other side.

“Whoa, don’t get too excited.”

From Ferris’ new vantage point he can watch his friend as he continues to drag the nail file up and down the bow of his index finger, board beating skin in a way that might as well be screaming “Ask about it!” every time the noise reaches Ferris’ ears. Absorbed, Ferris’ eyes are trapped following its movements.

The valleys between Demos’ tendons, where they meet with the juts of his knuckles and lean joints, the slide of bone pressing up against pale skin pulled taut and relaxed by invisible muscles working just below the surface. They grip the file, and the creases in Demos’ palms are lines in a map that Ferris follows for miles until they intersect with 180 degrees of pink emery board at the tips of his slender fingers.

Those hands, Demos’ hands. Ferris can feel them; fingers around his wrist, palms to his cheeks, a new memory, or a dream of a new memory, or perhaps even a new dream all of its own. Where those hands grip just a little tighter, skirt down his cheeks to his neck, his chest, and lower still.

A promise of possibility. Demos’ palms on his skin, Demos’ fingers entwined in his, fitting together with his like they did once, maybe, probably, instead of around a cheap pharmacy nail file that he continues to arrogantly grate down the side of his index finger.

This seems too well orchestrated, and if this was Demos’ plan from the very beginning, Ferris’ cheeks are hot, flushed red, with how effectively it has come to fruition.

> _A thing you absolutely should never do ever, seriously for real: Ask about it_

Ferris wraps his hand around his bag strap, leather soft against his palm, as he and Demos come to a meandering stop at the curb of Grove Street. A car rounds the corner, headlights flashing the shiny wet surface of everything, and it is in the exact moment the light touches Demos’ glossy hair that Ferris decides to do something immeasurably stupid.

> _No_

“Okay-” Ferris starts.

> _Don’t_

 “Demos-” 

> _Don’t you dare-_

“I wasn’t even going to ask, but why do you have that?” Ferris’ hand stays clamped around his bag strap, the other stuffed so deeply into his windbreaker pocket it’s searching for some form of philosophical enlightenment. The subject of his question is relatively self-evident.

Creases gather in folds around the corner of Demos’ one exposed eye, and Ferris feels the chill of regret crawl up his spine as the shit-eating grin on Demos’ face stretches from ear to concealed ear.

“Oh, you mean this?” He braces the file between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up to Ferris like it hasn’t been the most infuriating object to enter his life in the last ten minutes. 

“Cut the shit, whose is it?” Ferris snaps.

“ _Whose_?”

“Well, I know it’s not yours, and it’s definitely not mine-”

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Demos says suddenly.

That’s not what Ferris was thinking. Ferris isn’t sure what he was thinking. This conversation was ill-considered enough already without Demos throwing curveballs at it, and Ferris realises very quickly he has little in the way of ammunition to throw back since his mind fell into the gutter about half a street back.

He mentally slaps himself in the face as the best he can come up with is a suspicious sounding “Really?”

Demos steps off the curb, composure unscathed despite the sudden drop in altitude, and Ferris is left in his wake as he strides out across the bitumen. “It’s shocking, I know, but true.”

“Answer the question, please,” Ferris half shouts, stepping off the curb himself. By the time he’s halfway across the street, Demos has already skipped over a drain grate. 

“It’s Amy’s!” He calls back.

Ferris’ legs falter. His body comes to a jolty stop, eyes fixed on Demos’ slowly receding back as he ambles down Grove Street. Ferris can see his cigarette is on its last legs, and he’s still filing his nails. Filing his nails with Amy’s’ nail file.

A car horn blares from somewhere too close to be non-confrontational and Ferris belatedly remembers he’s standing in the middle of the street. Scrambling to the other side, he almost trips on the curb, barking out an indignant, “ _Amy_?”

“Yeah, Amy.” Demos pulls the cigarette from his lips, still strides ahead of Ferris. “Bossy, small tits, about yea high?”

Ferris watches the ribbons of smoke serpentine from where Demos waves his hand just above his head, and when Demos tips his head back to meet eyes with Ferris, his smirk still oozes enough conceit to drown a small child. “I’m sure you’ve met.”

Amy doesn’t have small tits, but Ferris can’t exactly blame Demos for not knowing the difference, and the two correct thirds of that description are almost enough to distract Ferris from questioning what Demos was doing looking at Amy’s tits in the first place.

He wants to ask, but asking one dumb question is how he got himself in this position to begin with.

“We may have,” Ferris says, skirting from the curb as a car hurtles past. “How’d you get it from her?”

“I didn’t -”

“Steal it, sure, but what did she do? Help you plant a seed and _grow_ it?” Ferris watches the flap of Demos coat skirt his ankles, the distance between them making this discussion far more difficult than it has any business being. He jogs a few paces but gains no ground, Demos continuing to cut a line down the street.

“She lef’did in your room” Demos clenches his teeth hard around his cigarette, the threat of it flying from his mouth as he calls back at Ferris too credible to risk. “In a bag of sh’tuff.”

“ _In_ a bag of stuff?” Ferris tries to lace his voice with as much skepticism as he realistically can.

“Yeah, you know? Girl stuff,” Demos waves his hand around more, nail file floppily drawing infinity loops in way of a point. “I found it in your room. It has her name on it.”

Demos swings around Collage Street at full momentum, not slowing even as Ferris tries to catch up. He disappears completely from sight for a second, and Ferris’ hand slides on slippery metal as he pushes off a lamppost. “You said you didn’t steal it.”

“I didn’t!” Demos drones. “She left the bag on your floor. She must have forgotten about it after she left.”

It occurs to Ferris suddenly that maybe this story isn’t as surprising as he first thought. He remembers the bag, or more accurately, the backpack Amy had dragged into his dorm room last night containing everything needed for a quote unquote “Last Ditch Emergency Study Sesh”. Ferris had asked her politely to leave, then not so politely, then had given up and allowed himself to be flash carded into submission well into the early hours of the next day, the contents of Amy’s backpack somehow strewn across every available surface of his room.

He must have fallen asleep, because he doesn’t remember Amy leaving, only waking up draped over his desk to a spotless room, a cacoon of bed sheets wrapped around Demos, and about four hours until his last exam. It was all so surreal Ferris could barely believe it even happened.

Demos drags the nail file up and down the crooked corner of his ring finger, so no matter how surreal it was, it certainly must have happened.

“It made me sad to see it go unused.” Demos says, voice seeping justification, as if he can feel Ferris’ accusing gaze following the emery boards every movement.

Hand clutching his bag strap, Ferris strides to Demos heels. “That’s _stealing_.”

“Borrowing.”

“This is theft.”

“Temporary appropriation, and _c’mon_ Ferris,” Demos slows considerably, brogues tamping against the wet pavement, and Ferris has to brake abruptly to avoid careering straight into his back. “It’s not like she’s missing it.”

Ferris cannot be the judge of whether or not Amy is “missing it”, but his footsteps fall into time with Demos’ as they make their way down College Street to some undiscussed destination, and he supposes there is very little he can do about Demos’ kleptomania, Amy’s Bag of Girl Stuff lying somewhere in his room, and the stateless condition of the nail file at this present time.

Someone on a bike careens down the road, and Ferris listens to the Doppler effect modulate the sharp _ding-ding-ding_ of the bell as it rounds the corner, passes them by, and then speeds off into the murky night. Everything glows dull with wet, golden like an old sepia photograph, and for the first time Ferris realises tonight is probably a really nice evening. He decides to cut Demos’ some slack. 

“You’re going to return it,” Ferris says.

“Of course.” Demos smiles around the last crumbling centimetres of his cigarette.

“You’re going to _give it back_ ”

“Yes, yes, I’m going to give it back!” Demos shrugs wide like a kid who just lost his phone privileges, the laughter in his voice betraying his very convincing spoilt toddler routine. “I’m simply not wasting a golden opportunity.” 

“To file your precious nails?” 

“To piss you off.”

Ferris glances sideways, catching the sly quirk cornering Demos’ lips. He shoots Ferris a look, dark eyes gleaming, because of course he’s known all along. Why else would he sit in the rain, crowded against a limestone wall by the cruel vice of a wet bike rack, if not for this very deliberate reason.

Demos arcs the board once more, and Ferris helplessly watches the rise and fall of its curve, no amount of will power able to stop the flush incline down his neck.

A breeze whips past, the rush of wind forcing Ferris to pull his scarf tighter, but not before observing how far Demos seems to have drifted from the centre of the path. Any further left and he would be walking in the garden, and every time the wind tunnels down the street his coat brushes against the concrete half-wall as it laps around his ankles. The scratch of wool on brick is annoying, as is the unnerving feeling Ferris can’t shake that this too, is somehow deliberate.

Demos doesn’t seem to notice, picking lint off his lapel. “Is it working?”  

> _Don’t answer that._

“…Why are you standing so far away?” Ferris says. 

“I’m taking that as a yes.” 

Ferris rolls his head back, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Demos-”

“I’m respecting your personal space.” Demos shrugs again, but this time his heart’s not in it. It’s smaller, and he moves further towards the edge of the concrete like he hopes the wall of the building they’re passing will somehow absorb him into the masonry.

“Well, that’s a first,” Ferris says.

A car passes, and then another, and as a third a speeds down the street Ferris forces himself to slow down so he and Demos don’t make it to the end of the block before Demos feels the need to elaborate. There’s something in the way Demos navigates the tight wire edge of the sidewalk, crumpling stub of a cigarette balanced so adamantly between his teeth that makes Ferris feel like the novelty of his nail file game has finally worn off, replaced by some fresh, new cryptic routine that Demos will allude to all in good time.

It doesn’t take very long. 

“It’s a metaphor.” He says, yolky streetlight filtering through a scholar tree and splashing motley diamond shadows onto the street around them. 

“What?” 

“It’s a _metaphor._ ” Demos finally plucks the charred cigarette stub from his lips, Ferris about ready to smack it out of his mouth, and waves his hand back and forth in a sweeping gesture of the great divide of expansive asphalt currently separating them. 

There’s a part of Ferris that feels like playing along, but it’s only very small, and it keeps getting smaller with every second Demos refuses to put out his stupid cigarette, like he’s trying to suck out every spare nickel contained in that last half inch.

Ferris watches the inky jigsaw shadows ghost across the pavement. “Do you even know what that means?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Demos shoots back. The side of his face glares at Ferris as he keeps his eyes fixed on the end of the street. “I almost failed math, not English.”

“I thought you almost failed everything?”

When Ferris looks over he sees Demos’ nose bridge and brow crumple, an unironed sheet of creases that refuses to make eye contact with his. Demos does eventually cast his glare aside, looking like he really wants to slap something, probably Ferris, and it causes a sick satisfaction to well up inside Ferris’ chest cavity that threatens to evict all current organ residents.

Ferris hears the slide of grinding concrete beneath a shoe, glancing down to see Demos crushing the remnants of tobacco underfoot. He forces two bellowing streams of smoke from his nose, and Ferris wordlessly looks on as Demos suddenly storms off down the street.

There’s a sharp _smack-smack_ receeding with distance, the nail file, and it doesn’t click straight away but Ferris soon realises his window of follow up insult opportunity has slammed shut around the same time Demos makes it halfway towards the end of the block. He’s totally been left behind.

“Where are you going?” Ferris shouts, half jogging to catch up. 

“To hang out with someone who’s not a complete jackass!” Demos calls back, swiftly crossing to sidewalk, skirting between two parked cars, and out across the street with a dexterity that only comes from the thrill of trying to ditch your friend. 

“You’re at Yale!” Ferris yells after him, but Demos has already disappeared into Cross Campus.

A stray breeze rolls down the centre of the road, tugging at empty tree branches and knocking Ferris’ bag off his shoulder as he tries to cross the street. There is no telling where Demos is headed to but Ferris can just see him, a tiny figure hurtling across a damp lawn towards the horizon, like the Mars Observer alone and adrift in the cold void of space. 

The grass slips under Ferris’ feet, and the plump raindrops that leak from the canopy above collide with the lenses of his glasses, kaleidoscoping the Cross Campus foliage in a blur of green and orange as he trails behind Demos in what Ferris hopes is the least stalker-y way possible. He slips the glasses from his face, wiping the water from the glass with the bottom of his shirt. Something twists in his gut as he slides the glasses back up his nose, something weird and feeble that clenches too tight around everything and is too stressed to let go. 

It’s gone wrong. This isn’t how it’s meant to be, and Ferris is unsure where his master plan went so astray, because nothing seems to be turning out right like it does in Demos’ awful romantic comedies. 

>   _The Correct Order Of Things: Suffer, save the day, get the ~~girl~~ boy_

That’s a lie, actually, Ferris knows exactly where it went astray. What can go wrong will go wrong, and it always does. Somewhere along the line inevitability always rears its ugly head to ruin everything.

In this instance inevitability made sure that in the two weeks since the night Ferris got punched in the face, Demos slept in his bed, and the two of them made out for a grand total of four minutes the following morning, absolutely nothing has happened. If anything, less than nothing has happened, a negative subtraction proven by Demos rounding the corner of Calhoun College, strides ahead Ferris still trudging across the dank lawn behind him.

Considering how bad he is that relationships normally, Ferris wonders why he finds it so surprising that this deviant level anomaly of a relationship is working out any differently. Of course it’s not going well, Ferris can’t remember the last time anything went well, but he can’t help but wish through some delusional envy that, for once, something did. 

> _Comprehensive list of what’s changed: This time you actually care_

The weird grappling feeling clutches Ferris’ intestines some more, very insistently, like it’s trying to make some sort of point. Whatever it is, Ferris is sure it’s manifesting wrong, because it never results in anything productive. It makes his fingers twitch, pumps his blood with a sudden adrenaline rush, like he could just start running and never stop.

He’s not going to. He doesn’t know where he would go. Ferris is having trouble even remembering how any of this started to begin with. He remembers wanting to kiss Demos, a feeling not hard to recall as it is an almost constant desire at this point.

Wanting to kiss Demos. Wanting Demos in general. Something that feels a lot like covet floods into Ferris and fills him up until his head is swimming, staring at the small of Demos’ back as he approaches Porter Gate. It’s gross, and he can feel the beads of sweat roll down the back of his neck every time he thinks about Demos’ hands, Demos’ lips, things he can have, things he _did_ have, but for some reason doesn’t anymore. 

> _Current Occupation: Worst Boyfriend Ever, probably_

For two weeks Demos has kept his hands aberrantly and cryptically to himself. Between studying, attending exams, and trying not to die from sleep deprivation, Ferris has found very little time to confront him about this. Demos was supposed to do something, but he hasn’t. If initiative were to come from anywhere, it would be coming from Camp Demos, but it hasn’t. Ferris thought paying for both of last weeks terrible rushed coffee dates would get him somewhere. But it hasn’t.

It feels like a personal attack on Ferris’ pride, and it’s left him as a wounded party. There’s a team of lawyers on standby somewhere with the power to sue the pants off Demos, hopefully in the most literal sense, but Ferris doesn’t know how to contact them or if they’ll even take his case.

The cool night air makes Ferris’ lungs sting. He’s half soaked, his legs hurt from slipping on the wet grass, he wants to kiss Demos now more than ever, and even though he’s outside it feels like there isn’t enough air or space to contain every loose thought currently drifting untethered inside his head.

He decides to reel them all in, stuffing everything back into the little box at the base of his skull.

Ferris steps off the grass, shoes clapping on the wet brick, and he can see the expanse of lawn, pavement, and the looming architecture of Sterling Memorial Library stretched out before him as he rounds the corner, the patter of Demos’ distant footsteps an invisible thread tugging him along.

Passing under Porter Gate, Ferris watched Demos flit across Elm Street, narrowly missing traffic as he hauls ass to the other side. The aforementioned undiscussed destination becomes suddenly quite clear to Ferris as Demos disappears inside the building. 

Ferris crosses the road, a breeze shaking loose droplets from the high trees, and several sheets of the paper come free from a message board, drifting like stringless kites in lazy loops down the sidewalk. The papers attached more securely flutter in the wind, pins rattling against each other, as Ferris opens the door to Durfee's Sweet Shoppe. 

A blast of warm air rushes towards Ferris like he’s walked into a wall, and he hurriedly steps aside as a group of sophomores approach the exit he’s currently blocking. He skirts to the side, body hugging the doorframe and encouraging a few strange looks from the unusually busy crowd. Ferris hears a breathy laugh, looking around to spot Demos lurking at the back of the line for the cashier.

He has his wallet out, nail file subtly pocketed no doubt, and he smiles like he’s not surprised at all that Ferris followed him the whole way here.

Sucking in a breath, Ferris drifts over, stepping into line directly beside Demos. “Any jackasses in here?” He asks under his breath.

“Just the one.”

The tiny twenty-eight watt florescent flood lights that line the ceiling and project directly onto the pipe lined walls glare off the glossy laminate floor in the weird ripple pattern that happens when light reflects off plastic, uneven polished shapes tracking up and down the two whole aisles that make up Durfee’s infinitesimal floor plan. If Ferris steps side to side he can watch them warp, perspective undulating the gleam across the uneven plastic surface, but he doesn’t because he’s too busy feeling the warmth of Demos’ back through his coat as he leans into him, shoulder blades pressed against Ferris’ folded arms.

“Pay for my coffee.” Demos says, tipping his head up, and Ferris gets too lost following the line of Demos’ neck to argue.

He pays, like he does every time, handing over a crumpled roll of ones to the solitary cashier once they make it to the front of the line, and Ferris follows Demos as he shuffles over to stand in front of a hot food display while they wait, his small hands warming over the heated glass.

It’s stuffy, and Ferris’ sweater sticks to his skin as he observes the hushed bustle of students loitering around the store. Machines hum. Shoes scuff and squeak against the plastic floor. The rock outcropping of Demos’ shoulder is jammed affectionately into the middle of Ferris’ back.

Another boring coffee date.

A group of three girls meander towards the exit in the exact moment Demos decides to curl a single hand around the bunched windbreaker fabric near Ferris’ waist. He places his head onto Ferris’ shoulder, chin digging to his collarbone, and Ferris can smell the tobacco on his breath when he says in a voice addressing any object and/or person within earshot, “We should do it.”

The girls all whip their heads around in unison, a single file line of gazes drilling a hole into the side of Ferris’ head for several agonising seconds before disappearing out the door. Warmth traps the sweat under Ferris’ shirt against his skin as Demos presses his chest forward into Ferris’ back, and Ferris’ ears blush as he can only hope those three girls don’t jump to the same conclusion he does.  

> _Translation Accuracy Rate: 34%_
> 
> _Conclusion: He can’t possibly mean sex._

The blush ripples down Ferris’ face, Demos’ words making contact with his spine, or whatever other posterior neck muscles used in the act of turning his head around much faster than he probably should.

Ferris hisses, “Do _what_? What are we doing?” at the same time the lady behind the counter yells at him that his coffee order is ready.

Demos tilts his chin, cheek sliding off Ferris’ shoulder, and Ferris mourns the loss of Demos’ weight pushed into the small of his back as he steps over to where the woman has abandoned the two steaming disposable cups on the bench. The heat prickles his fingers through the foam as he hands one over to Demos.

“What are we doing?” Ferris repeats. 

“Getting out of here,” Demos says and heads straight for the door.

The sweat on Ferris’ neck all but freezes as soon as he steps into the street, and the minute assault of tiny droplets on his glasses confirms that it’s started raining again, if the specks of drizzle floating at a snails pace from the sky could even be called that. 

Ferris watches Demos run for cover under the nearest tree, God forbid this unyielding monsoon mess up his hair, and Ferris quietly follows after him until they both stand, shaded by pin oak leaves, on the scuffed curb of the street. 

“This is shit,” Demos says, and it takes Ferris a second to realise he’s talking about the coffee.

Ferris snorts into his cup, the black liquid scalding an unsurprising track down the inside of his throat. It’s burnt. It’s always burnt. That’s all part of the Durfee’s charm. “What did you expect, a Michelin star?”

“Something at least edible,” Demos bites back between sips. Ferris should have known Demos’ princess palette wouldn’t be able to handle this level of culinary despair, his friend muttering under his breath, “God, this is awful. I mean-” 

Demos seems to ignore the loud crash across the road, somewhere near Calhoun College, continuing to complain at length while Ferris is preoccupied with the throng of students spilling out into the street. They’re whooping and yelling, and Ferris can feel the low thrum of a bass line run through the ground below his feet. A sudden cheer erupts from the crowd, a bottle smashes, and Ferris figures that a customary end of semester party has just started down towards that end of the block. 

Ferris kicks a stone into the large puddle lapping the curb in front of him, the pebble sinking with a gentle _plop_ , and Demos is still talking.

“I think it’s alive-”

“Can you drop it?” Ferris snaps.

“I’d love to drop it, but we paid good money for this shit.” As Demos speaks Ferris can’t help but notice a gaggle of moderately intoxicated architecture students crossing the road, careening down the street in their direction. Their loud barks of laughter draw impedingly closer. “And I’d rather have that money back in my pocket instead of the coffee all over the pavement.”

“My pocket,” Ferris says. “I paid.”

Demos titters around the plastic lid of his cup, smile contorting as he takes another excruciating sip. “So this is _your_ fault?” 

When Demos grins up at Ferris he wonders how many of his organs still function properly, because none of them feel like they’re working. He wants Demos to lean on his arm again. He wants him pressed up against his back, hand hooked on his waist. He wants less bad coffee and even less clothes. 

The unruly mob of Calhoun College kids shambles past. Their voices are so loud, and they all yell over the top of each other as they stumble in and out of the light glowing from the nearest golden street lamp. A few trip into the garden, and Ferris takes the chance to slide a single step over, closer. Demos’ shoulder knocks into his arm.

“Demos,” Ferris’ nails dig into the foam of his cup. “ _What_ should we do?”

Demos jolts at the question, coffee sloshing when he coughs straight into the mug. His glance flits sideways, and Ferris doesn’t miss the tinge of pink on his cheeks when he shrugs, “We should do it.”

> _Translation Accuracy Rate: 99%_
> 
> _Conclusion: He probably means sex_

“I mean sex.” Demos says before Ferris has a chance to even open his mouth. 

Ferris is suddenly overcome with the urge to track down the three girls from earlier and pay them for their silence, the muscles in his legs itching with an impulse to run. Too much adrenalin. There’s sweat on his palms and it’s making holding his coffee cup very difficult, and his ears burn, too hot, like coins left out in the sun.

He thinks about how he wanted Demos to do something, do anything. Getting propositioned in the street was not the movement from Camp Demos Ferris was expecting.

“Shouldn’t we,” Ferris doesn’t know where to put his eyes, darting his gaze around while his hand grips tight around his bag strap. “I dunno, go on more dates first?”

A knit weaves in Demos’ brow as he lowers the cup from his lips, and his mouth pulls tight in thin line that draws and dots a question mark.

“We haven’t been on any dates,” Demos says.

“What? Yes, we have!” Ferris heartbeat thumps annoyingly against his ribcage in syncopation with the dull drum beat radiating through the floor, distant music completely off beat to Ferris’ steadily growing panicked confusion. What does he mean _any_ dates? “We’ve gotten coffee like twice-” Ferris glances back at Durfee’s, thumb hooking to gesture at the door, “-Three times now.”

“You think this is a date?”

There is an unbelievably hard edge to Demos’ voice, and when Ferris turns his head back around he’s met with the face of someone who looks like they’ve been slapped clean across the face. He crumples under Demos’ incredulous gaze. “This isn’t a date?”

As if on cue, a car comes speeding down Elm Street, fast and low to the ground. It’s breaking the speed limit, and Ferris is just about to look for a licence plate when the right side wheels suddenly hurtle straight through the puddle at the curb. Water cascades up, a beautiful blooming arc of dirty street drain run off, and Ferris can practically feel time stop and then speed up again as the whole thing arches over and splashes onto the front of his pants.

Ferris looks down at his shoes. Soaked. He can only assume from their close proximity that Demos’ shoes and pants share much the same fate, but Ferris is surprised by the lack of complaining coming from his friend. Through drenched shame he drags his gaze up only to be met with Demos’ staring right back at him.

He hasn’t moved a muscle, and Ferris watches the slow crawl of one single eyebrow rise towards his hairline. 

> _Shit_

Demos mutters a muffled “Fuck this,” under his breath as he lobs his still partially full coffee cup into the nearest trashcan before storming off down the street.

“Demos,” Ferris shouts, scurrying to run after him. “Wait-” 

“How can someone with a 4.0 be so stupid?” Demos asks, coat flapping against Ferris’ leg when he catches up.

“Demos-”

“How can someone who goes to _Yale_ think _this_ is a date?!” Demos stops suddenly, half turning to yell at Ferris full on. “Shit coffee from your _college convenience store_ isn’t a date, Ferris-” He flicks Ferris’ cup with his finger; nail smacking on the foam and causing the liquid inside to slosh about. “Any chump with half a brain knows that! You really think I’d take you out to drink barbequed tanker oil?!” 

He’s panting, tiny chest heaving up and down, and his face is flushed pink and puffy around his healing bruises. Ferris wants to kiss him. Ferris is almost overwhelmed by how much he wants to kiss him, but he’s got to figure this out first.

“So we’re not dating?”

“No, we’re not dating.”

Demos drops his eyes, hand rubbing the back of his neck as he burns a hole in the ground with his stare. Ferris can’t figure out why they’re both breathing so hard, also can’t figure out why he’s not feeling so disappointed.

He should feel disappointed, anyone who hears that line would probably feel disappointed, he figures, but Ferris stands powerless as something that feels a lot like relief washes over him, drowning him up to his ears. Ferris’ eyes are glued to the blush high on Demos’ cheeks, and all he can think about is the clump of stay hair plastered to Demos’ forehead, slick from the rain. 

> _Current Occupation: ~~Worst Boyfriend Ever, probably~~ [status pending]_

 Ferris gets caught out; Demos lifts his eyes, catches his gaze. “But you thought we were?” he breathes through a smile. 

The drenched fabric of Ferris’ jeans sticks to his legs and the whole bottom half of his body feels like it’s going to freeze off, but not even that stops the flush of embarrassment crawling down his neck. 

Ferris decides to take a leaf out of Demos’ book, turning on his heel and charging down the street. His empty coffee cup is dropped into the trash as his soles pound the pavement. “Shut up.”

“No, Ferris c’mon.” Demos gives chase, hand closing around the slippery fabric of his windbreaker. He pulls Ferris to a stop. “You seriously thought we’d been on two-”

“Three,” Ferris cuts in, a weird panic bleeding into his voice, a victim of some major stab wound and in desperate need of medical attention. “Three dates.”

“Three dates.” Demos whispers under his breath and Ferris feels his friends fingers trace slowly down his arm until they catch, curling in the tips of his sleave. When he moves his thumb brushes against Ferris’ wrist, and every time it happens Ferris hears his heartbeat thrum louder in his ears. Demos’ hand hangs there, tugging softly as he laughs, “Why didn’t you say anything?

Demos is smiling like this is the funniest, stupidest thing, and he keeps drawing closer. Ferris wonders distantly if this is what it feels like to be an orbital satellite, drifting and drifting, as he watches his feet until his soaking wet shoes bracket Demos’.

“Why didn’t _you_ say anything?”

“You were studying.” Demos shrugs, voice low and grip tight around Ferris’ sleave. A taut grimace flashes across his expression for half a second, Ferris almost misses it, as he says, “I didn’t want to be a bother.”

He was waiting, Ferris realises, for the party across the road at Calhoun College, for the more crowded than usual Durfee’s, for the precise moment Ferris walked out of Modern Combinatorics at Leet Oliver Memorial Hall. Demos was waiting for exams to end, and Ferris has to stop himself from wondering if this is the most selfless thing Demos has ever done before his cheeks begin to burn clean off. 

Ferris doesn’t know what to do with his sweat slick palms. They just flop by his sides, one sleeve held in Demos’ tentative grasp, as two weeks of sexual frustration come to a head when Ferris blurts out “I’m not studying anymore,” before he can even stop himself.

“Oh?” Demos looks up, and he’s so close Ferris can hardly take it. The clump of hair still sticks to his brow, dark and shiny, and the reflections from the street lamps dance in his eyes. A part of Ferris just wants to lean down, but another part of him remembers they’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk. A smile twists onto Demos’ face. “Thinking of cashing in that blow-job I owe yo-” 

Ferris snatches Demos’ wrist before he can say anything more. His friends’ fingers come loose from Ferris’ sleeve, and Demos laughs, a bit manic-sounding, as his fingers close around Ferris’. If Ferris’ sweaty palms bother him he doesn’t say. Demos’ body goes limp as he allows himself to be pulled down Elm Street.

His fingers are warm, so soft, and Ferris keeps his blushing face fervently pointed at the ground as they stride past Calhoun College. Demos in tow, Ferris weaves through the throng in the street, music blasting from the windows. He doesn’t let go, and when Demos presses his head forward into the space between his shoulder blades, Ferris can feel him laughing through the fabric.

“I’m guessing this means yes.” Demos calls over the ruckus of sound, and Ferris laces their fingers even more tightly together than before, speeding up Temple Street towards Timothy Dwight.

They pass more people but Ferris doesn’t stop, leading Demos up the flight of stairs and down the hall to his room. When he finally gets the door open he doesn’t even have time to turn on the lights before Demos slips a hand up his back, fingers curling around his collar. The weight of his jacket slips from his shoulders as Demos peels it off. 

Ferris drops his bag to the floor. “You sure don’t waste any time.” 

“Shut up,” Demos barks, but Ferris can hear the smile in his voice. He folds the jacket methodically, draping it over the back of Ferris’ chair, before peeling back his own. The light through the blinds projects repetitious bars of yellow onto the wall behind Ferris’ back, Demos moving before him like a gilded inky silhouette of wet discarded duster coat. “I’ve been waiting very patiently for this. Have some sympathy.”

“Because I’m overflowing with that.” 

The knowledge that he and Demos could have been fooling around for weeks if his friend had not decided to suddenly grow a conscience sort of paralyses Ferris in place. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t quite remember the protocol for these situations. It’s dark, the skin at his fingertips prickles, and Demos must have sensed Ferris’ hopeless confusion because he’s crowded back into Ferris’ space, their chests almost touching. Ferris doesn’t remember seeing him move.

“It’s going to be okay.” Demos says. 

“Is that your prize-winning pick up line?”

“I’m trying to calm you down, idiot.” Demos takes Ferris hand, and it’s only now that Ferris notices how fast his heartbeat is racing, pulse galloping under Demos’ thumb when he brushes it over his wrist. 

“Holding my hand is not really helping.”

“How about this.” Demos suddenly lets go of Ferris’ wrist, hands coming up to brace Ferris’ cheeks, and kisses him. Ferris goes still, a soft and involuntary _hmm_ escaping from his throat as he feels the room sort of spin, but that might just be his frontal lobe disconnecting. Demos slants his jaw, knuckles tracing down Ferris’ cheeks, breaking the kiss with a quiet _pop_ before Ferris can even move his arms. “That better?” 

Ferris is about to say “Yes, a lot, actually please continue” but his frontal lobe is back in action and clamping his mouth shut before he can get the words out. “I’m not turning this into an excuse to stroke your ego.”

Demos slides his arms all the way over Ferris’ shoulders until their chests press together. _Warm_ , Ferris thinks, and he can feel Demos’ hands unravelling the scarf behind his head. It slips off, gravity slumping it to the floor. 

“Well, I sure hope you stroke _something_ before the end of the night,” Demos says, and before he can start laughing Ferris takes a hold of his waist and they’re kissing again. 

He chases Demos lips, and Ferris’ spatial awareness is thrown off by the feeling of Demos soft skin against his fingers where his shirt has rucked up against his chest. He knocks into his desk when he tries to walk, but Demos doesn’t seem to mind, hands warm on Ferris’ neck, pulling down until his mouth can open slick against Ferris’.

“Open your mouth.” Demos exhales against the corner of Ferris’ lips.

Ferris keeps his eyes shut, lips tracing Demos’. “What?” 

“Open your mouth,” Demos repeats, and the hands around Ferris’ neck slink up to cup his face. Ferris feel’s the soft pad of Demos’ thumb pull at the edges of his mouth, teasing his closed lips apart. Ferris’ lets him, opening to suck in a breath, and Demos slips his tongue past, sliding it hot and wet against Ferris’. It feels so good, and Ferris has to lean against his desk to stop himself from falling over. 

“Kiss like people do in movies, Ferris.” Demos’ words are hot on Ferris’ lips as they mix in the muggy air between them.

“Like you know how they kiss.” Ferris drags his mouth over Demos’, hands bunched in the fabric of Demos’ shirt where it’s coming loose from his pants. He slides his tongue past Demos’. “Is this how normal people do it?”

“I wouldn’t give yourself that much credit.” Demos’ smile is pressed right against Ferris’ lips and Ferris can taste it, taste the shit coffee and nicotine, and his hand smooths all the way up Demos’ back until it tangles in his hair. 

Small hands grip his jaw, and Ferris find himself being slowly dragged forward. Demos’ mouth doesn’t leave his for a second, lips hot-slick against his, and when Ferris’ legs touch the wooden edge of his bedframe things get very horizontal very quickly.

The mattress sags, pillow rushing up to meet them, and Ferris belatedly remembers how small his bed is. Demos rests on his side, chest heavy against Ferris’, and Ferris chases closer to him in his arms. He slips one arm under Demos’ cheek, behind his head, and it’s so hot –when did it get so hot? – as Demos slides his legs over his. There’s not enough space, and Ferris breaths hard through his nose as Demos presses closer.

“No shoes on the bed,” Ferris says against Demos’ mouth, and Demos just laughs as he toes them off.

Ferris gives up trying to split his attention between not falling out of the bed and Demos’ thigh between his legs. It’s too warm, sweat sticking his clothes to his skin, and Demos’ hands skirt around the base of Ferris’ skull, breath loud in Ferris’ ears. _Demos kisses so weird_ ; Ferris’ thoughts are muggy inside his head, feeling Demos’ hands soft and gentle around the base of his skull, cradling his head like it’s something that’ll break between his fingers. He lets Demos tilts his jaw, and Ferris wants to melt, it’s so hot. Demos’ mouth is rough against his, wet and almost completely horizontal. Ferris wonders through the fog between his ears if this strategy is so Demos can get the best tonguing angle. _Smart._  

Ferris’ arm is beginning to go numb when Demos suddenly pulls away. His breath comes out hard, and Ferris feels the heat radiate off his cheek as he presses it into the crook of Ferris’ elbow. Ferris worries that he’s done something wrong, that his kissing is really that bad, but stops when Demos’ hands slink up his neck, fingertips tracing over his jaw, coming to a stop as they slide under his glasses. 

He pulls them off, gentle as they pass over Ferris ears, and the cold slide of the metal temples against Ferris’ hot cheeks makes everything inside Ferris’ head slow down. The room is a blur, golden and fuzzy, and Ferris can only just make out the outline of Demos’ silhouette as he wipes the lenses on his crumpled shirt. They’re smuggled with grease, and Ferris feels a sudden rush of embarrassment, but stays silent as he watches Demos fold them between his hands. 

He sits up, leaning over to slip them onto Ferris desk, and when he lies back down they lie only inches apart, legs tangled over the bed sheets. Demos holds a palm over his mouth in a mock swoon, smile creased in his eyes.

Something inside Ferris’ heart feels really, really sick, like he’s eaten something that’s too sweet, like this is something he’s not meant to see. Sweat prickles on his skin, but he stops thinking when Demos drops two fingers, thumb curling around them as he makes the peace sign over his mouth. 

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Fuck you.” Ferris chases forward, kissing into Demos’ laughing mouth. Demos’ arms slip back around his shoulders, chests pressed flush together, as Ferris pushes him down.

Demos’ back sags into the pillows. “Is that not the whole idea?”

There is no room for anything, barely room to breathe, and Ferris pants hard against Demos’ mouth, nose pressed into his cheek, as he tries to get enough hands between them to start undoing belt buckles. Demos seems to have the same idea, hand grappling around the collar of Ferris’ sweater, flipping them and forcing the fabric up and over Ferris’ head. 

Sweaty hands fumble around Demos’ zipper, and Demos shoves his whole face into Ferris’ collarbone, sucking kisses into his neck, as he slides his shirt from his shoulders, Ferris’ quickly following. Demos’ breath leaves a damp spot on Ferris’ neck, and Ferris thinks he might be blacking out a bit as Demos’ silk smooth skin presses against his belly, pants kicked to the bottom of the bed.

Demos’ mouths at the knob of Ferris’ jaw, and Ferris feels so sweaty, breathless and overwarm, the weight of Demos’ naked body heavy on his torso. Sweat is sticking them together, and the world feels so far away as Ferris gets lost tracing the bumpy ridges of Demos’ spine all the way down his back. When Demos’ fingers skirt down his ribs, stopping at his scar, Ferris slowly drifts back to reality. He feels a breath hard against his neck, hot air tingling on his skin.

His friends’ hand stays there, or at least Ferris thinks it does. He’s finding it hard to think when the room feels like it’s on the surface of the sun and he’s half hard in his jeans. It doesn’t help that he’s lost all feeling there anyway. This is awkward, and Ferris can hear the cogs turning in Demos’ head over the rush of blood in his ears. He thinks his friend wants to apologize, and Ferris doesn’t know what else to do to snap him out of it other than to surge forward into a kiss. He misses, lips smashing warm and wet into the side of Demos’ nose.  

Demos lets out a laugh. It’s muffled against Ferris’ cheek, but his breath comes loud in Ferris’ ears. “Maybe I should have left the glasses on,” His hands snake up and down Ferris’ ribs, drifting away from the scar. “Can you see anything?”

Heat pools low in Ferris’ stomach as he feels Demos’ immaculate nails drag over his ribcage. He can’t see a damn thing, and his limbs feel so heavy wrapped around the small of Demos’ back. He kisses him. “I can see-” He pauses. “How much of an idiot you’re being.” 

Slanted against Demos’ mouth, Ferris’ feels the heat of Demos’ cheeks, breaths hot and shallow through his nose as Demos’ lips move warm and wet against his. Ferris can feel the earth turning, his head drifting through fog, and Demos skin feels so smooth under his palms. It’s good, it feels so good, warm and tingly, but it all snaps back when Demos’ tongue runs across the roof of Ferris’ mouth, his bare thigh shoved right up against the front of Ferris’ pants, and Ferris can’t hold back the breathy _ahh_ that escapes his lips, open and panting hard against Demos’.

Demos kisses his neck, teeth nipping at his collarbone, and he moves his hand down further and further, until it slips under Ferris’ waistband, hand closing around the base of Ferris’ dick. 

“Oh fuck–” Ferris’ voice breaks and his brain short circuits for a moment, hand flying up to grip Demos’ forearm. His friends weight is pressed firmly on his chest, and he hears Demos’ panting, hot and loud in his ears, intoxicating. Ferris wonders suddenly if the him from the past could have ever predicted this happening. Demos’ soft lips mouth around his neck, and Ferris’ makes a chocked noise at the back of his throat when he feels Demos’ hand start moving. 

Skinned knuckles, bony joints. Ferris wishes he could go back and pinpoint the exact moment when this shit started to do it for him. He keeps his eyes shut, sweat prickling on his forehead, and he figures he must have just given up one day. 

Given up one step at a time, like an old mans heart. 

“Wow, you really know how to set the mood.” Demos mouths into the underside of Ferris’ jaw suddenly, and _fuck_ Ferris just said that aloud.

Demos laughs sweetly, pressing a kiss to Ferris chest as he takes a hold of Ferris jeans, scooting down to slip them off. It’s cold suddenly where Demos used to be, and Ferris lies back and watches the golden edges of Demos’ blurry figure struggle with the wet denim sticking to Ferris’ legs. Sweat sticks his back to the bed sheets, and the weird electric humming in Ferris’ ribcage nearly deafens him when Demos moves back up the bed, pants and boxers successfully removed, and straddles his thigh. 

 _That’s his dick_ , Ferris thinks, and his throat skips as he feels it, hard through the fabric of Demos’ underwear. He presses it down against Ferris thigh, soft skin sliding either side of Ferris’ naked leg, and Ferris tries really hard not to moan into it.

He can practically feel the smugness radiate off of Demos. “Ready to cash in?”

Ferris shoves his head into the pillow, cheeks burning. “Is it refundable?”

Demos’ shifts his weight; Ferris can feel the way his body shakes with laughter where their skin touches. “I promise to make it good.”

“And you probably won’t even have to try, right?”

“I’m trying really hard right now, actually.”

Ferris looks down then, sees the glowing outline of Demos balanced on his leg, and he wishes he weren’t so goddamn blind so he could see what kind of expression Demos is making. Sheets bunch around his hand, and Ferris tries to keep his heart rate at a normal speed as he feels Demos hands spread out over his abdomen, the warm length of Demos’ cock sandwiched between Ferris’ thigh and Demos’ belly as he leans over.

Demos’ gently takes a hold of the base of Ferris’ dick, pumping once, twice, and Ferris has to fight to stay in the present, palms sweaty against his sheets, when he feels Demos’ hot breath against the tip of his cock. 

“This position good?” someone asks, and Ferris has to wade through muggy fog around his ears until he works out it was Demos. When he looks down all he sees is a curtain of dark hair.

Ferris is unable to stop himself from saying the first thing that comes to mind. “I can’t see your face.”

Demos looks up, and Ferris doesn’t know how but he knows Demos’ eyes are blown wide. Embarrassment rushes in from all sides, flushing hot down Ferris neck, and he’s about to tell Demos not to worry about it when Demos suddenly says, “Hang on.”

He moves off Ferris’ leg, light bouncing off the fuzzy shape of his body as he leans over the side of the bed. Ferris watches the scene unfold before his eyes, barely able to believe it, as Demos reaches down and procures from the floor, under the bed where he must hidden it, what could only be Amy’s Bag of Girl Stuff. 

He sits back on Ferris’ leg, warm and solid. The sounds of the bag unzipping fills the room, and the haze filtering through the blinds glints off Demos’ hands as he slowly pries it open, reaches in, and lifts out a handful of hairclips.

> _This cannot be seriously happening._

It is seriously happening. Ferris wonders if this is a dream, some awful gay nightmare, head and limbs heavy as he shift to lean on his elbows. He watches Demos push back the smooth drape of black stands from his forehead, shorter hair slipping between his fingers. The light outside the window catches in both his eyes, face revealed once he pulls his bangs past the crown of his head, and Ferris tries harder than he’s tried at anything ever before in his life to focus his hazy vision onto Demos’ right eyebrow. 

“What about your scar?” Ferris says.

“Fair’s fair,” Demos replies after a while, head bowed as he places the clips gently into his mouth. Hands now free, he collects loose hairs, pulling them taut against the side of his head. “Now we’re even,” he mouths around the clips. “Even Steven.”

“This isn’t quid pro quo.”

“We’ll see about that.” One by one, Demos takes a clip from his mouth and slides it up into his hair. Meticulously he pins, smoothing as he goes, until he runs out of clips, and when he lifts his head he tentatively presses the hair down, like he’s scared it’ll come undone. Cinderella getting ready for the ball.

He laughs a little, shoulder shaking. “Do I look pretty?”

 _What a stupid question_ ; Ferris steadies his brain enough to think up a suitable insult, but the semblance of one never forms, the tree outside the window suddenly shifting, causing the braches to brush against the masonry. The leaves part, and more light floods through the blinds, yellow bars spilling onto the walls. It would be normal, except this time the light catches on the tiny whips of hair swaying loose around Demos’ head. It’s a halo, and Ferris follows the fuzzy outline of Demos’ gilded body with his eyes. The faded bruises on his collarbones, the petite curve of his waist, the knobbly jut of his hipbones. 

A hairline of light floats lazily across Demos’ cheek and _fuck_ , Ferris’ thinks, because it’s pretty. It’s really pretty, and his head feels like it’s at the bottom of the ocean. His eyes un-focus, and a wave of embarrassment washes over him, drowning him up to his ears as he has nothing smart to say. 

Demos somehow clues in to how truly embarrassing his question was, his neck and chest flushing pink. He laughs low, sound coming from the centre of his chest, and Ferris can feel it resonate through him as Demos slides his body down, legs dragging across either side of Ferris thigh. He sinks down again, take two, and the light glints in both his eyes when he looks up at Ferris.

Ferris’ pulse beats loud inside his skull. “Actually, I think I like the bangs better could you, ah. Oh shit-” 

Hand tight around the base, Demos’ mouth sinks over the tip of Ferris’ cock, and sweat sticks Ferris forehead to his pillow as he moans straight into in. Demos’ hand curls around Ferris’ knee, pushing his legs apart, and as he drags his kiss-swollen bottom lip back and forth over the tip of Ferris dick, Ferris has to grip the sheets, shallow breaths dry in his throat.

Demos mouth is so hot, so soft, and the feeling of his tongue flat against the underside of Ferris’ dick as he sinks lower makes the heat pooled in Ferris’ stomach twist tight around itself, a pressure winding in coils. His breaths come out as whines, palms and cheeks hot, and when he feels Demos drag his ass back across his thigh he can feel the damp slide of Demos’ dick through fabric on his skin, and his cock twitches so hard he has to grab onto something. His hand flies up to grip in Demos’ hair, clips cold on his palm.

It’s warm, its so warm, and Ferris’ heartbeat pounds against his skull every time Demos drags his mouth up, tongue swirling around the tip of his cock, and then sinks back down. His lips feel so soft, puffy and wet, and Ferris wants to look down, but finds he’s only capable of pushing his head further back into the pillow. His breath whimpers, and he has no idea what the pressure in his gut is doing. Demos’ lips slide all the way down and the tip of Ferris’ dick touches the back of his throat.

Ferris’ whole body shudders, hips jolting involuntarily, and Demos just curls his hand up around Ferris’ thigh, nails digging hard into his skin. He hums, and Ferris feels it right around his cock, and this is bad. This is very bad. Demos tilts the angle of his jaw, blunt teeth gently biting around the base, and Ferris’ head is stuffed with cotton, the tightness of his balls against his body letting him know that this is all going to be over very soon.

“Shit, Demos-” Ferris’ throat is gravelly like he’s been shouting, “I’m gonna-”

Demos’ doesn’t stop, and he hums again, jaw tight around Ferris’ dick, and Ferris is so incredibly, pathetically hard. He drags both hands down the curved slope of Demos’ neck, clutching at his shoulders, and when he feels the wet patch at the crown of Demos’ dick smear into his leg, twitching hard against his skin, Ferris’ sweat slicked muscles clench stiff as his orgasm slams right into him.

His belly jerks, vision cracked white, and the hands he has on Demos’ shoulders dig into the skin as his cock spills into Demos’ mouth. He knows he’s going to be having dreams about this, the way Demos swallows the heavy pulses of his dick, the wetness of the back of his throat, the snap fast unwind of the coil in his gut. Ferris’ chest heaves. He feels so gross, hot and sweaty all over, but his world has funnelled down to Demos dragging his bottom lip up, giving a couple last sucks at the head, before his lips slip off the tip with a soft _pop_. 

There’s sweat sticking his back and forehead to the sheets on his bed, body a curve of exhaustion radiating an aura similar to a wet rag that’s just had all the water rung out of it, but the struggle of opening his heavy eyes is worth it when they semi-focus on the blush dusted high on Demos’ cheeks, a few dark hairs stuck to the sheen across his bare forehead, wrist smearing across his quirked lips. 

Ferris doesn’t feel like himself; his brain feels too empty, limbs sluggish and heavy, and he’s barely capable of wrapping his arms around Demos when he crawls up the bed, their bodies slipping together as Demos comes to rest atop Ferris’ chest. He’s warm, ribcage heaving slow against Ferris’, and he drops his chin to his folded arms.

“How was that?” His breath tickles the underside of Ferris’ chin. 

“It was…” Ferris shuts his eyes. He feels so far away, like he’s not really here, like he’s not really the one absentmindedly drawing shapes in the curve of Demos’ shoulder blade. “It was alright.”

Demos ducks his head to laugh, wisps of hair soft on Ferris’ skin. “You should be nicer to me. Or are you not physically capable?” His voice is soft, sleepy. It makes Ferris smile for some reason. 

“I’m always nice to you.”

“Oh, how you spoil me.” Demos leans up and they’re kissing. It’s slow, Demos’ lips lazy, and he tastes like Ferris and Ferris’ come and bad coffee and cigarettes and Ferris tries not to think about it so much because its honestly so gross. Demos’ elbows knock over Ferris’ shoulders as he presses his body more firmly down, and Ferris is suddenly very away of Demos’ dick, still hard and leaking, pressed flush into the jut of his pelvis. It’s distracting, fabric smearing across his belly, and Ferris breathes rough against Demos’ mouth.

“What are you thinking about?” Demos kisses the corner of Ferris’ mouth. 

Ferris swallows. “Quid pro quo.”

Demos’ mouth slips, laugh puffing into Ferris’ cheek. “Now you’re starting to get it, old man.” 

With not as much grace as he would like Ferris forces motion into his heavy limbs. Demos’ legs tangle with his as he rolls them over, Ferris’ arms slipping under Demos as they turn, but Ferris miscalculates an area equation as he rotates Demos straight into the corner where the mattress meets the wall. The paint is cold on Ferris’ shoulder, and the shock sends a jolt through him. Demos is pressed so close he gasps into the crook of his neck, back flat against the wall.  

> _Smooth_

Demos’ fingers clutch around Ferris’ back as he tries to shove his laughter into Ferris’ collarbone, tiny body shaking in his arms. They’re crowded into a fifth of the total bed space, sweat sticking the places where their knees and bellies touch, and Ferris is almost completely covering him. It’s colder near the wall, and the air sends shivers down Ferris’ hot skin. Embarrassment flushes down his neck, but Demos’ arms encircle him tighter when he tries to move away, leg slipping between Ferris’ thighs.

Ferris presses a kiss to Demos’ temple, lips tracing the outline of his scar. “Sorry if I’m bad at this.”

His lips move down Demos’ cheek, skin warm under his mouth, and Demos’ breath comes in a shaking sigh Ferris can feel on his ear. Nails dig into his Ferris’ shoulders. “M’never said you were bad.” Demos’ voice is a whisper. “When did I say you were bad?” 

Ferris’ chest feels funny, his organs and heartbeat doing some unwarranted acrobatics. He drags his head down further, mouthing the line of Demos’ jaw, and he smells so good, his skin is so warm. Stray dark hairs tickle Ferris’ brow. “I just… you’ve probably had better.”

His hand slides down Demos’ waist, and when Demos shifts his legs to hook around the back of Ferris’ knees, Ferris can feel the clothed outline of Demos erection press into the valley of his hip. He sucks a kiss into Demos’ neck. 

“No, I haven’t,” Demos breathes, head tipping back and slumped further into the corner. “Non c'è niente di meglio di te, Ferris.”

Ferris doesn’t feel brave. His heart hurts for some reason, he’s tired, and the sweat on his skin is turning cold, sending a chill down his spine whenever his shoulder touches against the wall. There’s something so scary about having Demos like this, hot and limp under him, and he can’t help thinking back to all those times he tried to convince himself he didn’t want this.

The fabric of Demos’ waistband slips around his fingers as he pulls it down, and Demos’ bare dick twitches against his skin, sticky string of precome pressed between their stomachs, and _fuck_ thinking is such a bad idea right now. 

“Aah,” Demos’ voice cracks, eyes squeezed shut, and Ferris chases the moan with his mouth as he reaches his hand down to wrap around Demos’ cock. He rolls his lips over Demos’, over and over, erotic rhythm making his head spin. Every time Demos arches into the wall he gasps and shivers, hot against Ferris’ lips, and Ferris’ shoulder brushes the cold wall too as he presses closer. Demos’ cheeks are so hot against Ferris’, and the feeling of Demos’ nails’ clutching desperately at his back makes Ferris’ head swim.

He never quite knows what he’s supposed to be doing, Demos does that to him, but Ferris pumps his hand hard and tight around Demos’ dick, and when he flicks his thumb over the head Demos’ breath comes in gasps against his mouth. His noodle legs slip around Ferris’ hips. “That’s good,” Demos pants, chest heaving. “You’re good.” 

This feels weird and confusing, but Ferris reminds himself that he has done weirder and more confusing things than this. He keeps his hand firm around Demos’ cock, Demos’ strangled moans damp against his ear as he sucks down his neck. It’s weird and confusing, sweaty, but also really nice. Demos’ dick is slick with come, and his shoulder is pressed hard into the cold wall, sweat on his back dragging the sheets down with him as he sinks past the mattress.

Blood flushes a heart shape onto his chest, and Ferris has no idea what he’s doing. He tucks his mouth against Demos’ jaw. “I’m gonna touch your ass.” 

He thinks Demos is about to open his mouth to say something, but whatever it was gets cut off by a cracking “Aah, _fuck_ Ferris!” when Ferris slips a hand under the small of his back, sweaty palm sliding through the crease of his ass until he feels Demos’ hole against the pads of his fingers.

A moan is choked from Demos’ lips, Ferris feels it under his mouth where he sucks at the bolt of Demos’ jaw, and Demos’ dick shudders a burst of precome as he grinds up into Ferris’ hand desperately. The sweat on the side of Ferris’ skin closest to the wall freezes, but everywhere else burns hot enough to melt, and Ferris is worried he’s going to crush Demos as he pushes all his weight down, no hands left to hold him up. Demos’ fingers drag up his back, pulling them flush together, his thighs pressing tight around Ferris hips as if he can’t get close enough. 

There’s no room on the bed, there’s no room between them at all, and Ferris pants hard through his nose as he hears Demos’ breath “God, Ferris. Oh _Fuck_ -” hot on his ear. Demos’ dick is so hard in his hand, and Ferris pumps tighter, spreading his hand wide on Demos’ ass. His fingers slide, one slipping past the puckered skin. 

Demos yelling “Ah, _shit_!” as Ferris bites down on the tendon behind his ear is the only warning Ferris gets that Demos is coming. His thighs clench around Ferris’ hips, one leg slipping down and hooking around his knee, and Ferris feels the brush of Demos’ curled toes across his calf as Demos spills come all over Ferris’ hand. It splashes on Demos’ stomach, muscles tensing and twitching, and Ferris drags the blunt edge of his teeth all the way down his neck, Demos’ sweat hot under his tongue, slowing his hand until he stops completely. 

Chests heave together for a while, nails digging sharp indented crescents into Ferris’ shoulder, and Demos’ whole body slumps underneath Ferris’, shoulders sagging as he lets out the breath in a shaky exhale that sounds more like it’s been pushed down a flight of stairs than expelled from a pair of human lungs. 

“Even Steven,” Ferris says around Demos’ collarbone, earning him a slugging slap in the shoulder as Demos’ hands slink off his back.

Ferris’ arm is pins and needles under the small of Demos’ back, but he somehow manages to drag them away from the wall, bed sheets sliding under Demos as they move towards the middle of the bed. Demos’ leg is still hooked around the back of Ferris’ knee, and his hands curl around Ferris arms as he leans on his elbows, boxing Demos under him.

“Fuck,” Demos’ breathes, chest touching Ferris’ every time it heaves beneath him. He turns his head into the pillow, and Ferris is leaning close enough that he can see how red Demos’ face is. “What the fuck.” 

“Huh?” 

Demos suddenly grips Ferris’ arms, head twisting to stare straight up at him. “I came so fast!” He practically yells, voice panicked. “Damn it!” He digs his nails hard into Ferris’ arms, slamming his head back into the pillow. “I barely lasted longer than you! God, this is so humiliating!” 

Ferris feels a familiar twitch in his eyebrow. “Thanks so much Demos. Really.” His limbs are lead, numb and sticky with sweat, and it’s a major effort just to lift enough leg up to slide it off of Demos. The cold floorboards send a shiver up his legs when his feet hit the ground. “Way to make me feel good.”

“No, no, no, no, no, Ferris don’t go!” Demos whines, tiny hands slipping over Ferris’ arms as he pulls them away. His body slumps against the bed, hands draping sluggishly over the edge, after Ferris pushes himself upright and out of arms reach.  

Standing is way more difficult then Ferris remembers it being. Nothing in his body feels like it’s working, it barely even feels like his body. He’s a car that hasn’t been turned on in fifty years suddenly clocking 0 to 100, and his eyes blink blearily as he tries to remember the floor plan of his room.

“Please come back,” Demos says behind him somewhere, and Ferris leans on his chair, at least he thinks it’s the chair, as he reaches for the box of tissues. 

He blindly pulls one out, wipes his palm, and then tosses the whole thing at the blurry Demos-shaped object lying in the middle of his bed. The shape yelps, so he assumes it’s a direct hit. He shuffles back to the bed.

“Hey-” Demos starts, and Ferris can only see the hazy outline of Demos wiping come off his stomach, but he cuts Demos off by suddenly gripping his sheets, turning them out and getting in underneath them. Demos topples towards the wall. 

“Ferris, come on.” The bed shakes with his laughter, and Ferris pulls the covers tight around his ears as he feels Demos scoot closer towards his back. He’s warm on the other side of the sheets. 

“Let me in.”

“No.”

“Please. I wont tell anyone you came in five seconds.”

“Good, cause I’m telling everyone you came in six.” 

Demos stuffs his head against Ferris’ neck, hands clutching lazily at the sheets around Ferris’ shoulder. He laughs right into Ferris’ back, “Please, let me in.” 

“I’m not letting you in.”

“Gnomo,” Demos whines, and his body curls over, weight on the bed shifting as he moves until he’s leaning almost entirely over Ferris. The shadow on the wall across the room leans down, and Ferris feels Demos kiss just behind his ear. “Per favore fammi entrare.” 

He feels his eyes roll back into his sockets, and Ferris’ body moves without his permission as he rolls over. Scooting as far back as he can, Ferris pulls the bed sheets open, watching Demos fold up his legs and slink in beside him. He closes the covers as soon as he’s under. 

Ferris’ whole body is putty, his eyes drifting in and out of focus on the ceiling above him, as Demos slinks an arm under his neck, draping his whole body over Ferris’ side like he hasn’t just spent the whole evening glued to him anyway. Like they’re both not disgustingly covered in sweat and in desperate need of showers. 

They’re legs tangle under the sheets, and something about the way Demos snakes his arms around the back of Ferris’ head makes his heartbeat skip, an irregular drumming against his chest. 

He can feel Demos’ heartbeat, fast and pressed close to his, and it’s gross. Ferris feels really gross. It feels gross when he slips a hand around the small of Demos’ back, holding him close, and it feels gross when Demos runs his hands through Ferris’ hair and doesn’t even realise. Ferris doesn’t know how to make it stop. 

“What time is it?” Demos mouths against his neck.

“Half past get the fuck off me.” 

The hands in Ferris’ hair card up and down as Demos laughs into his sternum. A leg hooks across a knee, Ferris’ arm goes numb under Demos’ side, and when Demos closes his eyes against his chest, Ferris can feel the languid sweep of his ten million eyelashes brushing against his skin. It tickles, the touch so light. Everything smells like sweat, like water-clogged clothes. Demos’ hands are so gentle as they smooth over Ferris’ hair. 

Ferris feels Demos’ smile pressed into his shoulder, and he lets his head relax into the pillow as he looks down. “You seem happy.” 

“What tipped you off, babà?”

He’s so close, too close, Demos’ breath puffs against Ferris’ face when their eyes meet. His body shakes in Ferris’ his arms as he laughs through his nose, and his smile stretches so wide some of it disappears into the pillow where Demos’ face presses against it. _So pretty_ , Ferris thinks, and he grosses himself out. His eyes drift up to Demos’ forehead, shiny with sweat, and he doesn’t feel like looking away. 

The carriage is a pumpkin again. It’s all come loose, Demos’ meticulously pinned hair in complete disarray; whole sections of his bangs hanging free, only half held down by clips that have practically fallen out. A few loose strands streak across his forehead, a clip droops low near his ear. The light illuminates it from the back, and Ferris’ tired eyes blink. He wants to commit it all to memory. His chest feels weird, gross, and Demos’ hasn’t stopped laughing against his shoulder. 

“You’re going to give them back” Ferris says.

“What?” 

“The clips.” 

Demos scoffs into Ferris’ chest. “Don’t you like them?” 

Ferris lets his eyes drift shut. “No, I’d just rather not get into a property dispute.”

“So you _do_ like them?” 

Ferris’ feels his cheeks go red, and it annoys him how Demos hooks a thumb under his chin and kisses along the line of his jaw like this is the funniest thing to him. When he laughs against where he’s just kissed it feels cold, but he’s back to kissing soon enough that Ferris can’t complain. 

“Are you sure you want me to give them back?” Demos hums against his cheek. “I did just use them to pin the hair off my face so you could watch me suck you off.” 

Ferris’ eyes snap open. “On second thought, maybe we shouldn’t give them back.” 

Demos’ fingers run over his cheek, pushing up through his hair and around his head. He’s laughing into Ferris’ skin. 

“But you’re still giving back the bag.” Ferris says.

“Just without the clips?”

“Sans the sex clips, yeah”

Demos snorts against his side, nose bumping against Ferris’ neck as he drops his head back into the pillow. They lie still, Demos’ toes bumping Ferris’ calf, and Ferris feels himself drifting further and further away, Demos’ hands gliding over his hair. Everything is so blurry, soft and yellow around the edges, and Ferris finds himself pulling Demos closer, feeling like that’s the thing that’s going to piss off the gross sick feeling in his heart the most. 

He’s right. He feels disgusting, brow knitting as Demos’ mouth slips over the corner of his. It makes a breath catch in his lungs. 

He decides to change the subject. “When are you leaving?” he breathes against Demos’ lips. 

“Whenever you’re leaving, babà” Demos kisses him, chest to chest, lips soft on his, and Ferris’ thoughts swim around his ears. He has to wade a long way before anything feels clear. 

Demos’ skin is silky, smooth under his hands, and Ferris rubs them up and down his back as he tries to think about exams, results, graduation. Yale. That place they’re at now. It’s hazy but Ferris begins to remember his whole world doesn’t begin and end where the line of Demos’ body presses flush against his.

This’ll end soon. He won’t sleep in this bed, live in this dorm. Demos won’t visit him every three weeks. Ferris’ll move back to Southport to live with his mother, and it dawns on him quite suddenly, Demos’ lips tilting slow against his own, that this marks the end of a beginning, or perhaps just the beginning of a very slow end. 

Thinking hurts, and Ferris want to give up as Demos’ calf slides soft between his. He tucks the sheets tighter around them, Demos smiling right onto his lips, already pressed as close as he can be.

> _Gross_

A breeze whistles past, softly rattling the panels on the windows, then rattling them on windows further down the building, and then further still on the windows at the end of the block, a canon of window rattling that repeats itself with every passing gust. Ferris can hear it in the distance, the gentle rapping of glass on wood, and his heart finally beats enough blood to his brain to figure it out. 

Demos laughs quietly against Ferris’ cheek. “Cosa stai pensando, il mio tesoro?” 

Ferris doesn’t open his eyes, lets his head sink into the pillow. Demos is kissing his red cheeks, and if he can feel how hard Ferris’ heartbeat knocks inside his chest, he doesn’t say so.

“You know I love you.” 

His pulse skips, eyes squeezed shut, and his face and hands feel so warm, palms flush on Demos’ back, as he feels Demos’ body go still against his. Ferris is tired, very tired, he’s not thinking clearly, and he wonders belatedly if maybe he probably should definitely not have said that. His breath hitches, but Demos’ hands suddenly creep down to cup both his cheeks, his fingers cold against Ferris’ burning skin.

Ferris’ eyes flutter open, his chest so tight, and the blurry outline of Demos’ face tries really hard to come into focus in front of him. He can’t make out an expression, but he doesn’t have to when Demos drags his mouth towards his, swollen lips bruising Ferris’ as he swallows his breath. Eyelashes fan and brush across his flushed cheeks, and Ferris thinks Demos’ is trying to say “Yeah, I know that,” but is kind of having a hard time, mouth never leaving Ferris’ long enough to get the words out. 

They kiss for a long time. They kiss until Ferris’ heartbeat doesn’t feel like its going to clot anymore, until Demos’ mouth lacks the coordination to sustain mouth on mouth contact, drifting slowly into the dangerous realm of mouth on nose contact, and when Demos’ weight finally drifts from his chest as Ferris rolls over, he finds he’s too tired to mourn its departure. Not that it’s gone long. Demos’ body moulds to the curve of Ferris’ spine, ankles knocking, and his arm is almost weightless where its slinks around his waist.

 _Shouldn’t this be the other way around_ , some very distant and almost completely untraceable part of Ferris thinks, but Demos tucks his nose against the back of his neck, and the fuzzy yellow bars on the wall sway back and forth in Ferris’ vision, rocking him to sleep. 

“I really love you,” Ferris breathes against the pillow.

“Non tanto quanto ti amo,” Demos kisses his neck, just behind his ear, and Ferris thinks about how untrue that is. How that’s so completely impossible.

That’s the last thing he thinks before he isn’t thinking anything at all.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Demos is basically blasting Love On Top at full volume inside his head for most of the last part but the song never ends the octave just keep going up.
> 
>  
> 
> Epilogue:  
> Demos: Hey, did you lock the door?  
> [Hiro immediately walks in]


End file.
